You're Lucky I Care For Fools Like You
by R. Scott
Summary: He hated being right sometimes; why did she stay here when it was clearly drowning her, causing her a horrendous amount of unknown torture? Why didn’t she just leave? As Alex sinks further into the depths of despair, Gene struggles to keep her afloat.


A/N: Hi there- Christmas is just around the corner, and so I bring you this little present! Hmmm...not much to say about it really, other than the fact that it's filled with the usual angst (well, what did you expect?). I'm not _really _that keen on it, but you lot can make your own minds up- I, of course, love every one of your opinions, good or bad.

Hope you all have a wonderful Christmas and an even better New Year- better than these two, at least. :o)

Enjoy. :o)

* * *

He hated her when she was like this. He utterly loathed her most days anyway, but he dealt with it; she wasn't changing anytime soon, neither was he. They'd arrived at some kind of common ground, learned to be in one another's company without screeching and yelling at each other half as much. It still happened of course, but it had become almost ritual. In fact, he was disappointed if he came home without thinking over their latest argument, brooding over each word she said, the way her lips curved around each perfect insult that, instead of hurting, made him grin in an absurd, dopey fashion. Away from her gaze, of course.

But now she was crying. Crying like a child, wails that sounded so ridiculous and choking, sobs that wracked her entire body without mercy. He'd seen it before and had just stood there, let it claim her, let her gasp for each breath and fall to her knees because of it. The sight of it was, of course, horrible. But what could he do? Nothing, apart from wait for it to end, watch helplessly, inexplicably fuming with anger, cursing her. And eventually she'd…calm down. He'd helped her up, stared at her blankly, offered her no form of comfort because he couldn't, not real comfort, not what she wanted. And she'd looked at him in that irritating way, like she didn't understand why he was helping her, why he was there. Why he had even bothered.

It had happened again, not long afterwards. Both times she had, of course, been outstandingly pissed. She stunk of it, actually, now he remembered. _You smell like a bloody brewery_. He'd muttered whilst hauling her up off the pavement, the second time around, holding her wrist and glaring at her because didn't he have better things to be doing? _I should fire you. Fucking liability._ He'd practically spat the words at her.

And she'd laughed at him. Crying to laughing in a matter of seconds.

_Fire me? Go ahead, Gene. Why not? _

Gazing up at him defiantly, a smugness in the line of her jaw, that maddening half smile on her face. Dark, bewitching eyes. Right in his face, up close. He couldn't say a word. He could only glare at her with all the mirth he had in him.

_Do it._

He'd been stone cold sober, only just left the office after masses and masses of paperwork, cursed it all and staggered out of the building only to be met with that, in a heap on the floor, howling.

And how easy it would have been just to walk right on past, ignore her.

_Go home._

He'd shoved her away, and she'd stumbled, laughing wickedly to herself, and then she'd shouted at him aggressively;

_I wish I fucking could!_

And he'd actually wanted to hit her. Never would, but he had felt like it at the time. For a split second he'd forgotten she was a woman, forgotten she was drunk and out of her mind because he was so consumed by this sickening hatred for her, couldn't bear it, couldn't stand to spend another second with her. He'd left her there, in the end. Stormed away, coat bellowing in the wind, listened to her feet shuffling along, her sniffs and stifled giggles or sobs, not caring what they were.

He hadn't slept that night.

Now, here he was again. He didn't even know why he'd come to the office at such a ridiculous hour, almost midnight, the lights off, only lamplight filtering through the blinds. He'd dragged himself over here because he'd managed to convince himself he'd left something there. _Something_. And the something turned out to be her.

He wiped a hand down his face in a futile effort to control his temper, stared at her slumped against her desk. The mellow light hit her profile at a striking angle…like she was glowing. Beautiful, really. Would have been if the sight hadn't been so tormenting, head in her hands, each drawn out sob leaving her breathless, two bottles of wine and his bottle of emergency scotch empty at her side

This was his D.I.

And in a sudden fit of rage, he lost it. He kicked the nearest bin and watched it hit the far wall, making a horrible, shattering noise as metal collided with brick, and he stood there fuming. Heard her gasp and watched as she buried her head further in her hands, apparently ashamed, scared maybe.

Good.

Striding towards her, each step sending a bone crushing pulse straight to his aching head, he slammed his hand down on the desk, watched as she practically jumped out of her skin, hiding her face. He was standing in front of her now and leaned in, hands on the desk, even though all he could see was her curly mop of hair.

"I've 'ad just about enough of this." He said in a quiet, menacing voice. She didn't look up and he felt a vein throb in his skull, gritted his teeth together before bellowing at her-

"Are you _listening!?"_

She dragged her head up slowly, let it slump back against the desk, and the way he was positioned he found himself looking straight down into her eyes. He felt his breath catch in his throat, felt his heart pound to a stop, wished that he could do something to make this misery end because he couldn't bear it, didn't want to see her like this. But what could he do? Apart from stare into her bloodshot hollow, eyes. It was like her soul was missing…she had no life in her, no will anymore.

And he spent so many hours each day and night trying to convince himself that he didn't want her around because she'd brought him nothing but pain, bloody agony, but it had all come to nothing, apparently. He'd always end up back here, pulling her onto her feet, allowing her to destroy what was left of his reputation, of his sanity.

She should just avoid alcohol altogether, he decided. Only once had any good come out of it, and even that he could barely remember. Some staff do, the Christmas party, and she'd been so drunk and ridiculously merry that she'd dragged him out into the middle of an empty road and sung at the top of her voice, hideously, sung some rubbish and he'd let her. Laughed at her. Spun her around and they'd almost fallen over, almost kissed he was sure.

_You're mad._ He'd said, fighting back a grin, letting her hold onto his coat so she could stand up right. She'd laughed so hard there were tears in her eyes.

_I must be mad. _She had muttered, sighing afterwards, giggling. _Dancing and singing in a street that isn't real, with you. Utter, utter madness._

_Absolutely. Bonkers. _

And now he thought, was that _really _a good thing? Did she even remember?

He was lying to himself, he realised, because he remembered every second.

"What are you doing to yourself?" he said, his voice barely above a whisper, crouching down, grabbing her arms, hauling her towards him. "Ey? What are you trying to achieve?"

Her head slumped forward again, but he caught it, pushed her back up so she could face him, held her there. His voice almost broke as he uttered-

"Why are you doing this to me?"

She smiled cruelly at him. Practically broke his heart. He had to close his eyes, pull away from her and let her fall back against her desk. He stood up straight again and ran his hands through his hair.

"Stop pretending that you care…" she slurred suddenly, and he turned back towards her. She was looking at him with such malice he thought it might be causing her pain. He stood there and let her speak, jammed his hands into his coat pockets for fear of lashing out, tried to control his breathing. "You make me laugh, sometimes. What are you even doing here?"

He gazed at her in anguish for a brief moment, before looking away from her. He couldn't answer that question. She could see straight through him, knew that he wasn't pretending at all. It made him sick.

"Just give up, Gene." She said, a drunken, false smile on her face that made his blood boil in anger. Then, waving the bottle of scotch in the air, she announced grandly- "I am a lost cause."

He stared at her blankly, a torrent of emotions colliding inside of him, but his eyes remained stoic. Stinging.

"You're right." He said in a strained voice. Let out a short breath and felt his anger rise again. "You're pathetic."

"Well. Sorry I'm such a _huge_ disappointment."

He grabbed her arm and dragged her upwards so she was standing, shocked her slightly, held her up. Shook her.

"No. You're not sorry. If you were sorry, you'd get your act together. You'd remember that you are a fucking police officer instead of some dozy tart who sets out to get spectacularly pissed every night, in the hope that some desperate toss-pot'll take 'er 'ome."

She flinched slightly at his words but he was too blinded by anger to care, to notice that she'd began to shrink away from him.

"Because that's all you ever go on about, isn't it?" he said, his voice rising with each word, the grip he had on her arm tightening. She look away from him but he just pulled her closer. "Home. That _wonderful_ place that you love so bloody much. Somebody take me 'ome, I have to get home!" he mocked cruelly, shaking her slightly with each word.

"Stop…" she sobbed quietly. He ignored her.

"Well why don't you just go there!?" he yelled, spit flying from his mouth, staring at her furiously. "What's stopping you? _Why don't you just go!?"_

After a horrible, silent moment, she pulled back slightly, swaying. He held his breath.

She promptly vomited over his boots.

* * *

_He was sure that Luigi was beginning to regret allowing them to have their Christmas party in his establishment. He'd shelled out a reasonable amount and all, and what effort had been made? The tables pushed to the sides, some tinsel and paper chains, and a mirror ball. Glorious. Surely even Chris couldn't cause a riot in here tonight. But no- Luigi looked on despairingly, sighing every now and then. And for once, Gene thought with a dull delight, it wasn't his or Chris' fault. Nope. This was all Drake._

_She was stood alone in the middle of the dance floor Luigi had fashioned, holding a bottle of champagne above her head like it was the Olympic torch and staring up at it like it was the love of her life. Swaying slightly from side to side, a drunk and sloppy grin on her face. And she was singing. At the top of her voice, each word drawn out as long as it could go, each note falling flat on it's arse, strangled and painful. The music had been turned off hours ago._

_God, it was awful._

_And what was he doing? Sitting there, completely rat-arsed himself, watching her. Her, in some little, knee length red dress, tottering on impossibly high black heels, hair tied loosely in a knot, strands escaping. Of course, she'd look gorgeous in a bin bag, but when she made the effort…_

"_Blimey!" he heard a voice, Shaz, splutter. "Is she alright?"_

"_Lord almighty…" Ray, this time, heading for the door "Look at her. She'll be parading around in her knickers in no time."_

_Shaz, clearly very, very drunk, laughed. "Guv!" she addressed him this time, but he didn't turn to face her. "You better do summink, she'll wake the neighbours!" She fell against Chris, dissolving into a fit of giggles. Gene glanced over at them briefly and watched as Chris gathered her in his arms, put on her coat for her, tried to edge her towards the exit which Ray had now staggered out of._

_Dragging his eyes back towards Drake, he leaned forward, elbows on the table, forehead resting on his knuckles. He took a drag from his cigarette, sighed contently as the smoke swam from his lips, and then shouted drunkenly-_

"_Bolly!"_

_At which point, she span on her heel to face him, grinning stupidly, and sung louder. Looking straight into his eyes, sounding like she was dying. He had to hold back a grin, and ended up smirking, stared at her with an intense, brooding gaze. Leaning back and folding his arms across his chest, he shook his head at her slowly, which caused her to burst out laughing. She stumbled forward, muttered a giggling "Oops!" before falling against one of the tables._

_Luigi then chose this point to sigh loudly and glare at him, gesturing towards her. Gene, noticing that everyone had left, took this as his cue._

"_I think you've 'ad enough Bolls…" he said, walking towards her and shoving on his coat. As he reached her, she looked up at him, a terrified sort of grin on her face, like a child who had been caught eating the cake that had just come out of the oven. Giggling, she gasped and clamped her hand over her mouth. He was too drunk himself to be irritated by her absurd silliness._

"_Oh no…" she said, pushing herself back up so that she was standing straight again. "I'm fine, really!" she wobbled slightly, like a dear learning to walk. He sighed at her and caught her by the arm as she fell against him._

"_Come on…" he muttered, trying not to laugh, swaying slightly himself. "Christ. Don't you get tired of making a complete tit out of yourself?"_

_She laughed at him as he pried the empty bottle from her fingers (Bollinger, to his grim amusement) and said in a high-pitched, drunken slur "You can talk!" and she laughed harder at herself._

"_Blimey, keep your voice down, woman." He said half-heartedly, and shot a glance at Luigi, who was turning off the lights and gesturing madly towards the door._

"_I think we've outstayed our welcome, Bolly." He said, putting his arm around her. "Let's get you 'ome, shall we?"_

"Bolly…_" she sighed dramatically with exaggerated disgust as the two of them staggered towards the door. He was practically carrying her. "Must you call me that?"_

"_Well, if you insist on drinking gallons of the stuff and behaving like my deranged aunt at a wedding, then I really 'ave no choice, do I?"_

_She cackled at him, collapsing against him again and he caught her around the waist before she fell to the ground. Luigi was staring at her, aghast. _

"_She's alright." Gene said as the reached the door, whacking Luigi on the back in a gesture of thanks, simultaneously holding Alex up who was still consumed by laughter. Luigi nodded, grimacing, and opened the door for them. _

_After helping her up the stairs, they stood on the street which had been totally abandoned at this late hour. He started walking her towards her flat but she, apparently, had other ideas; clinging onto the lapels of his coat, she pressed up against him, her bare skin freezing in the cold, and she rooted him to the spot. He sighed, gripped hold of her hips to help her stand, stared miserably into her eyes. Miserable because she was clearly about to kiss him. Something he wanted so badly yet even in his drunkenness, he knew he'd never let her cross that line, not in the state she was in. _

_Too easy, he told himself. It would be too easy._

_But then she smiled lovingly at him, her eyes sparkling, her breath a mist before him, and all he had to do was breathe it in and it was all over for him, all over again. He gritted his teeth together, some kind of desperation crying out inside him, pulled her closer until there foreheads were pressed together, closing his heavy eyes-_

"_Dance with me!" she said suddenly, leaning backwards and stealing the breath from his lungs, the cold night air freezing them. He let his head fall backwards, smiling bitterly, opening his eyes, and he was utterly powerless as she dragged him into the middle of the bloody road, mad fruitcake that she was. _

"_No." he said loudly, stopping and pulling her back towards him. She giggled._

"_Why not?"_

"_Because," he said slowly with a sigh, fighting another dopey grin, "There's no bloody music, is there? Unless you count the mad-house carnival that's in your 'ead."_

_She scoffed at him, laughing again, sounding so ridiculously happy he should hate her. He did, partly. But apparently not enough. She started humming and before he knew what was happening she'd flung her arms around his neck and the both of them were swaying along to it._

_And suddenly, without warning, she flung her head back and started singing at the top of her voice, some rubbish that he'd never heard before in his life._

"_Oh Christ…"_

_She was yelling it, so very very flat it actually hurt on some level to listen to it, but he let her go on with it, spun her around when she reached the chorus. She knew every word. Or was making it up, he couldn't tell. She laughed suddenly which stopped her in her glorious rendition_

"_You're mad." He stated needlessly in a tired voice, pulling her back to him. He tried to wrap his coat around her as she shivered. Her teeth were chattering slightly but she laughed loudly still, until her eyes were wet._

"_I must be mad." She muttered with a giggle. _"_Dancing and singing in a street that isn't real, with you. Utter, utter madness."_

"_Absolutely. Bonkers."he sighed, gazing down at her as she rested her head against his chest, momentarily baffled, cursing himself and cursing her for this horrible, endless dream. Because that's all it was, in the end. A dream. A useless, worthless hope- not even that. He had no hope at all._

_And she knew it._

"_Why are you so bloody happy then?" he said, suddenly feeling ill with a dull yet all consuming misery. She pulled back to look at him and he was slightly alarmed when she looked up at him with an intense, almost frightening passion. It wasn't meant for him though…no. Her eyes were glassy. She was looking straight through him._

"_Because…it's nearly New Year." She sighed blissfully. " New Year. It won't be 1981 any more, will it?"_

_He shook his head slowly, feeling a growing sense of unease._

"_It won't be 1981 anymore." She repeated, confirming it in her own, messed up head. "So…I can go."_

_At this statement, her eyes glistened, and she gazed up at him until he could feel nothing else but her, her stare, the pounding of her heart, the tone of her voice, the impossible warmth of her body pressed up against his own. He instantly sobered up, felt himself falling over that dangerous edge again, all over again and he yanked himself back, physically pulled his face away from hers._

"_Go where? The nut-house?"_

_She remained silent, and shivered in his hold._

_After a moment, he mumbled. "Come on. Let's get you in-doors."_

_But now, with a horrible irony, he realised, he didn't want to take her home anymore; he would be quite content to stand here in the road with her until the first grey wisps of dawn appeared, and longer still, right until new year._

_New Year. Would she really be gone by then? Did she mean it this time? She didn't seem certain, he thought with hesitation…she wasn't sure. _

_His stomach gave a sickening lurch as she finally pulled away from him, putting her hands up to stop him from pulling her back again, because surely she would freeze in that tiny little dress even in the short distance to her door. But he put his arm around her any way, walked beside her to her flat, sheltering her from the choking cold. They both drunkenly fell against the door and she fumbled with her keys, giggling slightly. He found himself smiling at her. Then, in a drunken, idiotic slur that he tried to make casual, he asked-_

"_You're not really gonna go, are yer?"_

_Her key clicked and the door opened before her, revealing the horribly long flight of stairs, which were only followed by more. She stepped in and he almost followed her, still waiting anxiously for a response, but she turned around to face him, blocking his entrance. He gazed down at her imploringly, tempted suddenly to just march in anyway and drag her up stairs. Instead, he leaned against the door frame. He knew he wouldn't get an answer. Not that he'd really expected one._

_She took hold of his coat again, as if unsure what to do with herself, and then placed her palm flat on the fabric, a look of confusion on her face. _

"_Goodnight." She said with a sigh. Then smiled in a strange sad, way. "And Merry Christmas."_

_He was mildly aware that a painful expression was on his face as he stared down at her, and his breath caught in his throat, making him feel ill. "Yeah." He said pathetically in a strained voice. He cleared his throat. "You an' all."_

_And she leaned up and kissed him on the cheek, in the briefest of seconds, and before the warm sensation it left by his mouth had even begun to fade, the door closed in his face.

* * *

_He scrubbed defiantly at his boot as he held it over the sink, grimacing at the stench and trying hard to lean away from it. Tiredly, he wiped the remaining suds away, bowed his head- and found himself looking at a pale stain on the end of his suit trousers. Fuck. Would that come out? Did he even care, really? Anger welling up inside him, he dropped the boot on the ground and slammed his foot into it, leaning over the sink and sighing. He pressed is fingers to his temple; his head was thudding painfully.

After a long moment in which he simply stared down into the base of the sink, he turned back towards her, sitting at the table with his coat wrapped around her shoulders. She was sipping tentatively at a glass of water, and staring at his foot.

"That'll probably come out." She said quietly. He sat down heavily opposite her, glaring, not even bothering to reply. Thankfully, she seemed to have sobered slightly and he took dull satisfaction in the fact that she was clearly mortified…her eyes, however, looked painfully bloodshot and her entire complexion was deathly pale. He ran his hands over his face in exhaustion.

The two of them sat in the office kitchen in awkward silence now, staring at the cold plastic surface of the table. He drummed his fingers, let out a deep breath, and stared back up at her again. He'd known her well over a year now…felt like longer. Like a lifetime. He'd never seen her so low. He'd seen her close to death before, even brought her back to life more than once. He could handle that- it was his job, wasn't it? He was in control, he knew what to do. It wasn't like he expected any thanks from her, the fact that she was alive was enough. But this…he couldn't stop her. She was destroying herself, willingly, balancing on a perilous edge, an edge he'd had to stop himself hurtling over countless times. He couldn't really do anything about it. Did he even want to get involved in this horrible mess that was her life? The thought of her drinking herself into oblivion sent an almost terrifying rage through his body, he had to clench his fists, let out another long breath. A lost cause, she'd said. No. He refused to believe it.

Because he'd seen her when she was saving people's lives, when she was locking away the scum that the day drew in, when she was smiling and laughing and shouting at him. When she was holding her own. When she was coping with all the shit that they had to deal with, when she was, in her own, oblivious way making him fall harder and harder for her.

He swallowed, a painful lump in his throat, and he banished the thought instantly, feeling like an idiot once more. He hated himself more than he hated her sometimes.

And now…what was he meant to say to her? She sat there, unaware of his gaze, staring into the water, lost and alone and ill. Like a little girl who needed her Mum.

He drew a long breath, preparing himself for what he was about to say.

"Talk to me."

He'd uttered the words in a quiet, hoarse voice and, for a brief second, couldn't actually believe he'd said them. A part of him didn't want her to answer, he didn't want to hear it; he couldn't help her. He was hardly the best person to be judging her about her problems…her _drinking _problems, for Christ's sake. He almost laughed at the irony of it. If only Tyler could see him now.

She looked at him, curiously, and his heart lurched with a painful tug as he saw something in her eyes, an uncertainty, a longing of sorts. Had he broken through? He knew, deep down, he'd never really _wanted _to break through...yet, now he was faced with the possibility, he found he wanted nothing else. A year ago, he would have laughed at himself, laughed until he couldn't catch a breath, until he was sick with it. Because who was she, in the end? Just some loopy, gorgeous utterly hopeless bird who he'd wanted to bed since he first clapped eyes on her, who was on his team, who was only meant to be there temporarily, a fact she constantly reminded him of. He didn't know when he'd suddenly become so desperate to find out everything about her, to get to the core of her troubles, to, God help him, _understand _her.

But as soon as these, quite frankly, disturbing thoughts crossed his mind, she smiled bitterly at him and he knew he'd never understand.

"What do you want me to say?" she said cryptically, eyes narrowed, sighing and leaning in closer towards him. He noticed, now, how very tired she was and regretted starting the conversation. Not that he expected it to go anywhere.

"I don't know." He said angrily, yet keeping his voice low, shaking his head and mirroring her position. "I just…"

_Give up Gene. I am a lost cause._

He ran his hands over his face again, momentarily unable to look at her. He needed a drink himself, but he thought that that wouldn't help matters.

"I'm running out of ideas, Bolls." He sighed, looking at her again. The sight told him nothing, her eyes heavy and hollow, her lips a thin line across her ghostly face. Her expression was slowly growing more sombre, more despairing, and he felt his throat constrict tightly as it looked as though she was once more on the verge of tears. He wasn't sure what he'd do if he was presented with that again.

She looked at her hands, opened her mouth and closed it just as quickly, holding back whatever it was she'd been about to say. _Oh for God's sake, woman, say something._

In a bold, spontaneous movement, he took her hands in his own and stared down at where they were joined, unable to meet her gaze. She didn't pull away. She didn't tighten the hold. It was like she had no feeling in them at all.

Christ. What was he doing? What was he _meant _to be doing? He felt a sharp shivering sensation at each of his nerve ends as he waited for something to happen, waited for this horrible moment to come to an end.

"I don't want anything from you." She said suddenly in a strangled voice. He kept his eyes locked on their joined hands, still couldn't look at her; he shifted in his seat, a bitter expression forming on his face as her words sunk in. Struggled to suppress his anger, his pure _frustration _at their agonising situation. Because, of course, he wanted everything from her.

He forced himself to pull away, stood up quickly and leaned against the work top again, closing his eyes, and the urge to reach into his inside pocket and take a long swig from his flask was so powerful that he ended up slamming his hand down on the work top in fury. He didn't hear a murmur from her. Perhaps she'd grown used to these ever more frequent violent outbursts.

"Good." He spat out eventually, staring at the wall "Because I can't bloody 'elp you, can I?" _No one can._

His earlier words suddenly slammed to the front of his memory in horrible clarity, how he'd shouted them at her, watched as her face collapsed in on itself. He hated being right sometimes; because why _did _she stay here when it was clearly drowning her, causing her a horrendous amount of unknown torture? _Why didn't she just leave?_

Oh _Christ_. He hadn't meant it. Of course he hadn't- what would he do if she upped and left now? As likely as the possibility was, he felt his gut clench and his head swim at the thought, it made him actually _panic_ for fuck's sake. He could barely remember what it had been like here without her, he didn't want to remember.

He didn't want her to go.

"I didn't mean it earlier." He said in the end, guilt squirming through his veins like venom and a new tidal-wave of self-loathing coming with it. He still couldn't face her, head bowed low. "About leavin'. Just sort yerself out, will you? You're…you're my D.I for _fuck's _sake_…"_

But he'd never sack her. He knew it. She knew it, even more irritatingly.

Finally, after his tiresome, depressing speech, he turned to look at her again- and to his alarm, she was stood just a foot away from him, his coat now folded in her arms. Her eyes were shining and she stared up at him, in total agony.

"I'm _sorry_." She said firmly. She was so sincere it rendered him speechless; he gritted his teeth together and tried astoundingly hard not to pull her into an aggressive embrace, tried to lean away from her but found himself backed into a corner. "I am. I really am, I just…"

She looked down for a moment, smiled bitterly again, and said almost silently;

"I thought I'd be back by now."

_Well your presence is required a bit longer round 'ere. By me._

He didn't say anything. He just took his coat from her and shrugged back into it, folded his arms across his chest and looked down at his crossed ankles, a brooding expression on his face. To anyone, it would look like he was sulking. But he was trying, against all logic, to control his temper. He was too old to be this angry, to let his emotions rule him, emotions that, it seemed, he'd spent his entire life suppressing. But when it came to her- there was too much, too conflicting and violent to truly keep under control, to manage. She had no idea how weak he'd become. That farce he put on everyday- he actually used to _be_ that man, once. What happened to him?

"Are you…" he began, sighing again, looking back up at her. "Are you gonna…you know…be alright?" And then felt like smacking himself on the forehead for spewing out something so ridiculous.

She nodded. "Yes. I'll be fine. I _am _fine. I've just been feeling …lost, lately."

"And now you're found?" he mocked, earning a small smile from her. She stepped close to him, stared up at him questioningly.

"Have you ever felt like giving up? Letting it all…go numb, in your head? When you can't face the reality of your situation, when you'd do anything to make it end, to get out?" she asked with a quiet desperation in her voice.

"All the time." He said truthfully; his face remained blank whilst hers was contorted in despair. "But you don't give in to it. Not really. You fight it." He had no idea where those words had come from.

She nodded. Determined.

"I know. I _know_." Then, quietly; "I have to keep fighting."

To his surprise, she grimaced and covered her face, shaking her head.

"Oh _God. _I'm sorry…" she wailed quietly.

"'Appens to the best of us, love." He said, staring down at the faded stain on his best trousers.

"No." and she stepped closer to him, placing her hands on his shoulders. "I'm _sorry._ About everything. Everything. All the shit I put you through. All the…_horrible_ things I say, the stupid things I do. You don't deserve any of it."

"Too bloody right." He said quickly, wondering if she had actually sobered up after all. But she carried on, freezing him to the spot, and he let her, burning each word she said into his memory because he knew he wouldn't get it again, wouldn't get any more from her. No _love_. And was that what he wanted, at the end of it all, is that what it all came down to?

"And even after all that…you still want to help me." She sighed, smiling slightly at her words in wonder. "You still take hold of my hand. Why?"

Of course, the answer was simple and horribly obvious. They both knew it. There wasn't a hope in hell of him ever telling her, though, not even if it was his last chance, if he was dying, if she ever did end up leaving. The words would go with him to his grave. He'd never give her the satisfaction.

"Why don't you tell me?" He said in a tired voice. She stared at him with a look of disappointment in her eyes which gave him a dull sort of pleasure, gave them equal ground again, if only briefly. She looked down at her feet, and opened her mouth to talk- but he stopped her, and said;

"Go home, Alex."

She tensed slightly at the use of her name, so very rarely said by him, and closed her eyes, clearly fighting back tears. She nodded, slowly, and smiled tearfully at him.

"Thank you." She said, making him feel wretched, making him want to hold onto her with everything he had in him, because he knew that 'home' didn't mean across the road. It was like he was letting her go, releasing her from some sort of poisonous grip, allowing her to leave. None of it made any sense…but it apparently it was crystal clear to her.

He knew then, for certain, that their days were numbered. He'd known from the beginning, really, but ignored it, denied it, told himself that the day would never come where he'd let her walk out. He couldn't stop her, though, didn't matter how much he wanted to. They weren't even together; and even if they were, he knew it wouldn't make a difference. Her heart was somewhere else…it belonged to someone else.

He watched her walk slowly away from him, watched until she disappeared out the kitchen doorway, listened to the clack of her heels as she made her way out of the building. Heard the faint noise of the doors slamming, even heard her crossing the road outside, that road where he could have had her if he'd been daring enough.

When he was certain she'd left, he marched into his office and unlocked the cabinet under his desk, pulling out his last full bottle of alcohol with a shaking hand. He didn't leave until it was empty.


End file.
